


In The Gardens

by Ashling



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Relationships, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Exactly 4k just to see if I could babeyyyy, Gen, I'm messing around with ages and timelines because I can & I feel like it ;), POV Brienne of Tarth, POV Third Person Limited, Pre-ship?, basically if I had time to write 20k this would be Brienne/Peter that's the vibe, so like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:48:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25716079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashling/pseuds/Ashling
Summary: Brienne's aimlessness comes to an end.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 30
Collections: Crossworks 2020





	In The Gardens

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChronicBookworm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChronicBookworm/gifts).



As Brienne strolled through the royal gardens of King's Landing, verdant with full leaves and ripe with flowers of every possible color in the height of summer, she heard the clacking sound of wood on wood, and smiled with the first real excitement she'd felt in weeks. She had been pleasantly surprised to receive an invitation from the Narnian queens that morning—all the Narnians had been quite friendly on every royal occasion she had attended, but Brienne was still only a noblewoman and not a particularly prestigious noblewoman at that—and she had dressed for the garden tea she had expected, sapphire blouse and long sapphire trousers full enough that they almost looked like a skirt. She had almost worn a skirt, that's how much she wanted the Pevensies to like her, but she hadn't packed any. Now she was glad of it.

For, yes, in the clearing in front of the Copper Pavilion, half-shaded by a thicket of trees that afforded decent privacy, there were a couple of people fencing with wooden swords: Arya, the little snub-nosed daughter of Eddard Stark, still several years from womanhood, and a curly-headed, unassuming man who parried her every stroke expertly and with patience. Meanwhile, Queen Lucy and Queen Susan were sitting in the pavilion with lunch in front of them and not a bite taken, both of them leaning forward in their chairs and yelling encouragement. Brienne had faced quite a similar scenario, once, only instead of a Braavosi, her opponent had been her uncle, and instead of two Narnians, her audience had been one of her aunts and a cluster of other noblewomen. Unlike those women, Queen Lucy and Queen Susan didn't look as though they were laughing at Arya. They looked truly delighted for her. Brienne felt a twinge, just watching it unfold. Perhaps court life was making her soft.

And then Queen Susan noticed Brienne in the shadows, and still the look of delight remained on her face. She waved Brienne over, and Brienne acquiesced. Arya and her opponent stopped dueling.

"Well met, your Majesty," Brienne said, bowing low to Queen Susan. "Your Majesty." She bowed to Queen Lucy too. And then, remembering how awkward the Narnians had been on one or two occasions when the social rift between themselves and others had been emphasized, she gave Arya a little bow too, and finally the Braavosi. Who knew? Maybe he was a lord. And better to err on the side of politeness.

"Oh, _very_ well met, Brienne," said Queen Lucy, who was one of the only people Brienne had ever met who not only agreed to leave off the _Lady_ part, but had slipped into it perfectly naturally and without even the slightest outward sign of curiosity about why. "Will you have some grapes?"

"Wait," said Queen Susan. "Before you do, Arya wanted to ask you something."

And indeed the little girl's round face was fixed on Brienne's with an expression of interest whose intensity rivaled the sun's. Brienne couldn't help but smile back. "Anything for you, Lady Arya."

"Arya," she said. "Just Arya. Will you do an exhibition match with Syrio?" Her brown eyes were pleading.

"She wishes to see how small and quick may best big and strong," said the Braavosi. He gave Arya the kind of fond, indulgent look that would befit a grandfather.

"If it would please you—" began Brienne.

"It would!" said Arya.

"—but I am sure that your swordsmaster will best me in two seconds. I am out of practice." And indeed Brienne had kept up her exercises, ridden a horse every day, and walked many a restless hour, but she had not taken up her sword against an opponent since the Hand's Tournament.

"Please?" said Arya.

Brienne felt absurdly gratified by this, considering that the child was considered a hoyden by many of the other noble ladies and that she indeed seemed to thoroughly dislike everyone above the age of fifteen except her father.

"Very well," she conceded, "only don't be too disappointed." She didn't actually think she would disappoint—she was accustomed to triumphing over more formidable men than this amiable Braavosi—but she knew that the best way to approach any match was a lowering of expectations through humility. And perhaps some real humility too. In combat, you never knew who might catch you by surprise.

Arya looked very earnest. "I won't," she said.

Taking the small wooden sword offered to her, Brienne stood coiled and ready. Eddard Stark did not strike her as the type of man to hire a second-rate swordsman just to appease his younger daughter; his Northern pride was evident in everything he did.

As expected, the Braavosi gave Brienne a real fight, patient in his willingness to evade and parry and not strike at all for the first few minutes, and then viper-quick in his eventual flurry of attacks. To call it a water dance was apt, so fluidly and swiftly did the fight unfold, and by the end of it, Brienne had made fewer hits than she scored, sweated her forehead shiny, and gained a thorough respect for Syrio.

The clearing had been quiet save for panting and the clack of wooden sword on sword, but at Queen Susan's voice calling, "Time!" everybody erupted into cheers, including a couple onlookers that Brienne hadn't noticed. She swung around, saw who it was, and was immediately thankful that she wasn't much of a blusher.

Both Narnian kings looked well-pleased, and there wasn't even the slightest hint of a smirk in their smiles as they applauded. The elder one, Peter, the one they called the High King, had praise well worth receiving. Brienne had seen him in the duels, and his opponent hadn't held back, either. He couldn't be more than twenty-seven years of age, but his smooth-cheeked, gentle-eyed face belied a warrior who fought with much experience.

"Don't worry," said a little voice, beside her. Arya's. "It's just the Pevensies. They're not _boys-_ boys. Even Sansa doesn't get strange with them anymore."

"I'm not worried," said Brienne, which was true, but she did feel very much like a sweaty giant holding a tiny wooden stick.

"Any wine, Brienne?" called Queen Lucy from the pavilion, and Brienne gratefully took the opportunity to retreat from the kings, shake Syrio's hand, and sit down in the shade. Meanwhile, Arya and the four Narnian royals chatted about archery and how Arya might learn, and Syrio packed up for the day and bid them farewell. Narnian wines and cheese were as excellent a reward for a fight as any Brienne had ever had, but she didn't get to enjoy them for long. Eventually, King Edmund went off to arrange some archery targets at the far end of the clearing, the two queens fussed over fitting a bracer onto Arya, and King Peter made his way over to Brienne.

"Hello, Brienne," he said. "Do you mind if I sit?"

She did mind. Even after weeks of hanging around the capital doing nothing but exercises and courtly nonsense, the courtly nonsense part was still very difficult. Not so difficult, however, that she had no idea what she ought to say.

"I don't mind at all," she said, and pushed a plate towards him for emphasis.

"Thank you." He sat down across from her. It was unnerving, how earnest his blue eyes were. Not desperately earnest, like Arya's, but calm and true. "I know we haven't talked much," he said, "but I am glad of this opportunity to change that. If you don't mind. My sisters put this together to encourage Arya in her pursuit to, as she says, 'become such a great warrior that she can kick a dragon's arse', so I'm sure we'll be called upon to talk strategy soon enough, but for now, while they're at bows and arrows, I would like such of your time as you can spare."

Although the king himself wasn't terribly formal, him asking for her time was. It smacked of a few nasty old jokes she'd borne before. "You have my time," she said, hoping that her dubiousness didn't show on her face.

"Thank you." He took a sip of his elder sister's wine. "I hope this does not come across as rude, but after seeing you in the Hand's Tournament, I took the liberty to ask about you. Renly Baratheon did mention that you were interested in becoming part of his bodyguard, but that he had no need for more bodyguards, and—"

Brienne could feel herself burning. She had hoped that nobody would hear about that particular rejection, and now all she could do was hope that Renly had not guessed at the reason she had chosen to offer herself to him in particular, that he had not shared that detail with this king as well. If King Peter caught her humiliation, he did not show it. He simply went on.

"—we are, in Narnia, always looking for humans who are strong, capable, thoughtful, and honorable to serve as knights. It was my sister Susan who proposed this idea, being the one with brains between us two, but I would be the one to knight you, as I am a knight myself."

It would not matter if the Narnians wanted to make her a knight; women couldn't be knights in Westeros, and she wanted a Westerosi king to change that. Narnians had strange ideas about having multiple kings and women in battle, and as a Narnian knight she would not be considered a knight by anyone else on the continent. Narnia had no real need of knights, of defense. There were Talking Mice who were Narnian knights, and Brienne wanted to be a useful warrior, not an amusing novelty. But she knew better than to say that.

"That's very kind of you," she said. "I am honored by your attention." And then, desperately, "Who knighted you?"

Luckily, King Peter took that question naturally. "Aslan," he said. "When I was sixteen, after I had killed a Talking Wolf. Not much of a fight—I got lucky, really—but the knighthood stuck, so I can pass it on."

"That is very young." Brienne wasn't just deflecting, now; she was truly surprised by this. The Narnian royals, and their country more generally, seemed to bear a charmed life, as enabled by their strange seasons which were so short and so regular, and the sea of mist which surrounded it, and the ancient bridge from it to the North. Exquisitely defensible and peopled by Talking Animals, it was hard to even believe that it was real, were it not for the exports. It did not seem like the kind of place where a boy would have to kill a beast.

"Things are a little quieter now," said King Peter. "Those were different times."

"Ah." Brienne sipped her wine, and wished he would go away. To be complimented on her skills by this capable, royal, and admittedly handsome man might have been pleasant if it didn't come hand-in-hand with her having to refuse him. In her experience, capable, royal, handsome men were accustomed to doling out rejections, not receiving them.

"If you do not wish to become a knight of Cair Paravel..." And here King Peter paused for only a second, giving her time to intervene and disagree. She didn't. He went on: "...then as High King, I am deeply sorry to hear of it, but as myself I am pleased."

"Oh?" It was difficult to tell if this was an insult, and if so, what flavor of insult exactly.

"It would be unseemly for a King to court one of his own knights."

For a moment, Brienne forgot herself and stared at him, took in the way he met her gaze intently, without a smile to ingratiate himself, without a glower to threaten. Rarely had she even been watched this closely, and she reddened under it. King Peter must have seen, for he finally looked away, over her shoulder, down at the table, back to her with more restraint. Tentative, this time.

And she knew she could not accept him, because her first thought turned to Renly, still. If he thought that this was what Brienne wanted, if he had orchestrated this for her. He had to know that kings were replaceable but her heart was not, and that no matter how beautiful or kind or young another man might be, he'd never be Renly. Or perhaps he knew none of this. Perhaps it had only been a few sentences exchanged between them, short and absentminded, _the lady of Tarth? She can fight, but I have no need for more guards,_ easy said and easily forgotten. Perhaps she was easily forgotten.

Only now the silence lay uncomfortably between them, and Brienne could see that King Peter would speak soon if she did not. She scrabbled desperately, for anything, anything that would buy her time.

"But Princess Myrcella," she said. "I thought..." It was clumsily done, but better than nothing.

"Yes," said King Peter, and something flickered behind his eyes too quick to catch: amusement? Regret? Sorrow? "We thought so too, but—it is plain that we are not right." He did not elaborate, and nor did Brienne wish to make him.

"I'm sorry," said Brienne, and she was. Sorry that he couldn't get what he wanted, sorry that she had become what he wanted, sorry that the answer would always be no.

"I don't ask for your hand," he said. "I only ask that I may come to know you, as you come to know me." There was nothing insistent in it, and it was his gentleness more than anything that broke her honesty free.

"I can't," Brienne said, and though she'd never wanted to be a wife, a mother, a queen, it gave her real pain to say this now, because she didn't want to hurt him. "I can't be what you want me to be. I've tried. I'm not made for it."

"I saw you in the Hand's Tournament, and I saw you afterwards, with Arya, and I saw you out of the corner of my eye at the victory banquet. I want you to be nothing more or less than what you are." But he said it quietly. Not as argument; as explanation. Almost apology.

And then, with a child's wailing, drawn-out _no,_ Arya had hurled herself through the intervening space and was shaking Brienne's arm, hard. It was startling to remember the rest of the world still existed, and it took a while for Brienne to understand what was happening. There were both Stark girls, and Lord Stark besides, the girls wretched, the Lord distressed, and all the Pevensie royals ranged beyond, looking anxious too. For one absurd moment, Brienne thought it was to do with King Peter's proposal. Then she got a grip.

"—promised that you would tell me more about training and Su said that we could have birds we hunted ourselves and you were supposed to come, tell him, Brienne, tell him, we _can't_ go, we're not half done yet!" Arya, to her credit, was not crying for pity, but she was also young enough that wheedling came easy. "Please, Brienne?"

"I'm sure your father has good reason, if he says you need to go," said Brienne, with an upturned look at Eddard, whose expression only tightened.

"I do. Arya, come on." Lord Stark had to use both hands to pry Arya away.

"Knights must follow orders," said Brienne, "even the difficult ones, unless they are orders to harm the innocent."

"I'm innocent," said Arya, resentfully. "I'm being harmed." But she let go.

From the adjoining courtyard drifted the voices of a couple handmaids talking as they strolled towards the rose garden, and Brienne could see the way Lord Stark froze up at the sound.

Queen Susan did too, apparently. "Where shall we say you have gone?" she asked Lord Stark.

His face darkened. "Nowhere. I'm staying in King's Landing."

"Where then shall we say the girls have gone?"

"I'll not ask you to lie for me," said Lord Stark, and Brienne noticed the way his hand tightened on Sansa's shoulder.

"We'll do it," said King Edmund. "There are worse things in this world than a well-placed lie."

King Peter got to his feet. "We'll do more than that, if you ask."

The air thrummed as Lord Stark scanned the faces of the assembled royals, and then finally landed on Brienne. He did not seem pleased at the sight.

"I can hold my tongue," she said, but even as she said it, she knew it was not convincing. This was King's Landing, and there was no such thing as a private conversation. "On my honor," she said, and then, in a burst of frustration, knowing that without the rank of knight that meant little: "and on my sword hand too."

"And mine," said King Peter.

"They're children," said Queen Lucy, "and we know something of growing up too soon. We can help."

"I'll be thirteen soon," muttered Arya.

Still Lord Stark stood, and stared, with one hand on each of his daughters, holding them close. Watching it, Brienne missed her own father for the first time in months.

"Get them out of here, and up North to their mother," Lord Stark finally said. He spoke roughly, but Brienne understood it. "Can you do that?"

"Yes," she said firmly, and the Pevensie royals did not so much as raise an eyebrow at her speaking for them all.

"They need to be in Winterfell, with their brothers and their mother."

"I don't want to go home," whined Arya, and it struck Brienne, then, that Sansa had not spoken that entire time. She was biting her thin lips and pressing close to her father's side, trying to look brave, and that more than anything else went right to Brienne's heart and finished her.

"I'll come with you as far as the docks," said Lord Stark. Beyond them was a clatter, and they all turned to look; it was Queen Susan, who had somehow melted away during the conversation, and who was gathering up the bows and arrows they had been practicing with.

"Won't that make us more discoverable?" said King Peter.

"Yes, but I'll spend some time with an old captain I know, make it seem that I'm hiring a ship. That should give you a little time." Lord Stark studied the faces of those who remained; behind them, a large raven was twittering quietly in conversation with King Edmund, and Queen Lucy was bundling up the food into the napkins. The Pevensie royals moved with astonishing efficiency. "Are you sure?" Lord Stark said, one last time.

"We're sure," said King Peter. "It'll be over with us and the Lannisters, but that was always the way I sensed it. King Robert tolerates us, but the rest of this court would have us as mummers if they could. That's all they think we're good for. And you've been good to us; I don't know how I would have gotten through the Lone Islands conquest without your advice."

"King Robert is dead," said Lord Stark.

 _Then so are we,_ thought Brienne. Neither Starks nor Pevensies seemed the duplicitous type, able to pull off a clean escape from King's Landing, but she had hoped that the high risk of being caught would be mitigated by Robert Baratheon's fondness for Eddard. Now even that cold comfort was gone.

"I'm sorry," said King Peter. Something passed between the two kings, sympathy perhaps, but they had no time to speak it properly. A huge, snow-white cat was slinking out of the bushes, bearing in its mouth a burlap sack. The cat dropped the sack at King Peter's feet, then rolled over and caught in its mouth the chunk of cheese Queen Lucy threw at its head.

"Cloaks," said Peter, digging through the sack and offering one to Brienne. And then, at her silent question: "This isn't our first palace escape."

"Probably not our last, either," growled the Talking Cat. It didn't sound too concerned, but then, any creature that weighed as much as a man, with five razors-sharp claws at the end of each paw, was not the type to get terribly concerned about anything.

And then, high above them all, the bells began to ring. First one, low and sonorous, and then a few more, higher, and finally all the bells of the city sang as one.

"I was afraid of that," said Lord Stark. "The King is officially dead."

He knelt down, and gathered his daughters to him. Whatever he murmured in their ears was lost to Brienne, thanks to the bells, but whatever it was must have been effective, for Arya went straight to Brienne, Sansa went straight to Peter, and both girls allowed themselves to be hurried along and fitted out with cloaks as their father disappeared into the maze of bushes.

At the edge of the gardens, where stone-cut steps went down to the stables, Brienne caught a glimpse of two gold-cloaked City Watchmen hurried upwards, swords drawn, and yanked herself back behind the cover of a hedge. Gestured to Peter with two fingers, and he gestured back that he would take the one on the right, producing a knife from his boot—maybe he hadn't been joking about it not being his first palace escape—and then pouncing. Brienne, for her part, went bladeless and crude and effective, locking her arm around the guard's neck, kicking one knee out from under him, and, when he fell to the ground, flailing uselessly in front of himself with his sword, bashing his head against the cobblestone so that his helmet rang out. He remained alive, but he'd have a headache for days afterward. Dragging him behind the hedge, she turned to Peter, only to find him still holding a knife to the man's neck as King Edmund and Queen Lucy tied him up, with Arya trying to help and mostly getting in the way. It was a heart-pounding minute until that man, too, was shoved behind the hedge, and they continued in their escape, hurrying through the stables and into a covered wagon of sorts, which stank of cheap wine and looked mercifully anonymous.

Inside, they were all crushed together in space meant for four people, with Arya sitting on Queen Lucy's lap, inspecting the handle of her dagger, Sansa on Queen Susan's, whispering something in her ear, and the great cat spread across both King Edmund and King Peter.

"My way was faster," was all Brienne said.

"I know. I'll do better next time," said King Peter.

"Your Highness," she added, wryly, glancing over to see if he caught it, and he did.

"Just Peter," he said, and she had just enough time to notice that he was more than pretty when he had a knife in his hands and a complicated sort of amusement on his face. Then the wagon came to an abrupt stop. She could hear voices, loud and brash: three at least, arguing with the wagon's driver.

Wordlessly, Lucy passed her dagger over to Brienne, who accepted it. It struck her how natural it was, moving among these Narnians almost as though she were one of them; it felt almost like being among the few men who had been willing to train with her, back on the Sapphire Isle, before all this began. Even the tournament for the King's Hand hadn't felt like this; she had fought alone. And this new partnership felt solid, and well-worn, like an old saddle beneath her, and she thought: this might be worth keeping, after all.

"If we are able to escape..." Brienne began. The voices were getting louder, drawing closer. The driver was losing the argument.

"What?" said Peter.

The door to the carriage was yanked open.

"Later," said Brienne, and then she was the first one out through the door, dagger first.


End file.
